Payments of blood and lives had been given, by all gathered below.
“Our Oath still stands,” my brother said while sitting atop new-formed cliffs,
White birds aloft circled freshly-encroaching sea, the earth had been broken.
Below, amidst mud of forces gathered, the tent of our quarry stood,
Mighty Eönwë, now guarding two jewels prized from a crown of iron.
“They must be ours,” my brother said, arming for a moonless night's mission,
Our swords were sharp, our cause was just, and once again we took up the quest.
No others had rights to them but we, the two remaining of seven,
Payments of blood and lives had been given by five for these which awaited us below.
“Two yet remain,” my brother said, two jewels, two stones of heritage, two pending deaths,
From the tent we retrieved them, fulfilled that sworn to more than an Age before.
We held once more those taken by Evil, pain struck our souls and bodies both,
Darkness had been vanquished, now could be birthed Arda's newborn spring.
“The pain is just,” my brother said as steam rose ahead of him and his feet trod air,
Lava below embraced him, encased him, and cleansed him, a grave of living fire.
Aulë collected the jewel, buried it in heat and cauterized its wounds,
He barricaded it from baleful vapors, allowed its purification by living rock.
“Our Oath is death,” I screamed into air, and pain drove me to the nascent shore,
Hand throbbing deep drumbeats, I sang prayers for salvation of this unclean burden (not mine - my hope had long fled).
Making a mighty throw, Ulmo then catching, he carried the shining jewel, down into the depths,
His arts used pressure and darkness to cleanse its noxious poisons entrapped by the waters.
Payments of blood and lives were given, but still I remain,
Walking mere steps from madness, eternal pain confirms my damnation.
Only one remains, the last of a distinguished line, now doomed to wander,
How far can I fall, a former Prince of Tirion?